


Youth

by Surrealism



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1940's America, 1950's America, AU, Adolescence, Alternate Universe, Bullying, Cold War, Explicit Sexual Content, Greaser!lock, Greasers, Homosexuality, Kid!Lock, M/M, Segregation, Teenlock, War, World War II, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Surrealism/pseuds/Surrealism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, two kids grow up in War ridden America.</p><p>Together, they discover their own struggles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If there was one word you needed to describe him, it was quiet.

John Watson: A kid so quiet it was like his parents didn’t even know he existed. When he spoke, his voice didn’t go any higher than a whisper. Small, just like he was. If you spoke to him, you had to make sure you weren’t hard of hearing, or else you wouldn’t hear him at all. He was just your average kid, lived in an average home – nuclear family, mother, father, daughter and son; every family was like that, at least he thought; he wouldn’t have known, didn’t have any friends in this part of town.

Wrigleyville – the neighborhood right outside of Wrigley Field; a symbol – “The National Pastime” he would hear everyone say. Baseball was a big thing out in Chicago, when you lived near a baseball field, it had to be. The peoples threads screamed with their love of baseball and America, things were good, life was good. Their smiles so plastered on their faces it was frightening, but Americans needed a distraction from their blue collar lives – and baseball was a damn good one.

John sat at the dinner table, his rosy red cheeks shone in the candlelight while his family sat around him, waiting for the moment when he would blow out the dancing flames on top of the wax sticks. His eyes were still closed, his hands together in deep concentration – small hands, from a small family.

“C’mon Johnny, make ya wish already.”

Tiny voice, just like his. Coming from a girl, the corners of her lips pulled down like anchors were hanging on the ends – complete dissatisfaction. She didn’t care what he wished for, she just wanted her cake. Honey brown hair, just like his; tied up in a ponytail, a pink ribbon right on the knot, short springy curls threatening their way out. Her dress matched her ribbon – of course it had to, girls wear pink, boys wear blue, women stay home while men go out and work – and her Mary Janes reflected any light that dare touch them, black and shiny like mama wanted. That’s what good girls wear, and that’s what you wear if you ever want boys to like you – she didn’t know if she wanted boys to like her, but she knew she didn’t want anything else.

“Oh Harriet, come now. He’s going to make his wish, aren’t you John?” A light kiss, lips daring to be darker and redder than any apple that grew on the Washington Orchards, rested in his hair. Slender arms, comforting and dainty, wrapped around his waist. The longer he kept his eyes closed, the more the arms succumbed to his imagination – he wasn’t thinking about his wish anymore, he’d made that ages ago, ‘cept torturing Harriet was too much fun. Now he was thinking about what was in the boxes, the shiny wrapping paper, the large sizes, the various sizes.

Blue poked its way through skin as his eyelids separated, retreating from one another and the biggest grin he could muster made its way out. He exaggerated a huge breath, tiny lungs not getting much air, and started to force it all out on the candles. So focused on his own breath, he didn’t notice the aid he’d gotten, small breaths going to put out even smaller flames. The fire flattened out, unable to fight its demise, like a man putting his hands up in surrender, before finally disappearing into thin air. The smoke made its appearance, finally getting to revel in the artificial lighting before a hand whisked it away.

"Yay! Good job, my baby boy.” The maternal voice cooed, the “ay” sound getting drawn out as much as possible – the need for children to be reassured by the sounds of extended vowels, always a parental maneuver. John started to clap for himself, and then a hand went straight for the cake, which was swatted away by another. Baby blues glared at the source, which was exchanged for a quick giggle and then an innocent smile – the same innocent smile that he’d used to get anything he wanted, when he wanted.

Small family, small cake, small lives, small worries

John was uninterested in the cake as soon as the candles were out, and his wish was made. He stared at the plain white frosting, praying that chocolate – his favorite – would be the flavor underneath. Sunday was always a nice day, he thought. That’s when papa came home early, early enough to listen to the radio with him – anything would do, he’d even listen to the news if that’s what papa wanted.

“Papa’s gonna be home soon, right mama?” The little voice was loud, his own voice even ringing in his ears. His excitement betrayed his own shy attitude, for once; the voice had a mind of its own. It was held back for 4 years, and it wanted nothing more than to make itself known. The volume had even startled John, who bit his lip closed, wide eyed at his mama.

Mama Watson wasn’t surprised; instead her slender fingers curled themselves into John’s hair, wedding ring against skin, cold metal against warm blood vessels. Those lips again, giving a kiss, leaving a mark.

“Yes John, papa will be home soon.”

Just as she said these words, the door opened. The door opened with an empty click, first leather dress shoes made contact with linoleum, then with the wooden door. The sounds of fabric were different from other Sundays, frantic and rushed, missing the coat rack. White dress shirt and black slacks made their way to the radio in the living room, turning knobs this way and that – only gargling coming from the other end until clear words came through, mellifluous and serious.

_**“…The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii by Air, President Roosevelt has just announced…”** _

The atmosphere in the room had become so heavy; it was like walking through condensed milk – thick and syrupy, enough to drown in. The Watsons listened intently, Mama’s arms around her son were no longer comforting, he could tell. John didn’t know what was going on, he could count to 20 and sing you the Alphabet backwards and forwards – but he didn’t know the words that could change his parents like that. Mama’s green eyes were focused on the radio, Papa’s brown hair was disheveled – his matching eyes glossy and blank.

Mama grabbed Johns’ hand, pearl against peach, the contrast lessening as she blanched. John watched her fingers run over his, shaky and ugly and awkward in rhythm, moving in fast and slow motion all at the same time. He opened his fingers wide, letting Mama grab each and every digit as though he would lose them all tomorrow – with the way she had been touching him, he began to entertain the idea possibility that it was true.

“Harriet, take your brother to your room, okay sweetie? I’ve got to talk to Papa.” Mama mustered the sweetest voice she could, voice cracking on _Papa_. Harriet nodded, grabbing her little brothers hand, his hand fitting perfectly in with hers, he wondered if they would ever grow big like papas’, and guiding him away to their room that they shared down the hall.

 

* * *

 

John fiddled with his own hands, mimicking the movements that Mama had just pressed onto his skin. He pretended that she had written a secret message to him, one that only they shared, and that kept him busy. He didn’t want to think about what was going on just in the next room over, muffled shouts and whimpers seeping through the barrier that was his bedroom (and Harriets’) door. He wouldn’t allow it, not on his birthday, not on Sunday, not on the two days closest to his heart.

_Small Family_

The noises quieted down soon enough, only the whimpering remained. John continued to search his hand for clues, ignoring the source. Then, footsteps. Heavy and foreboding, they made the hairs on his skin stand on end. A turn of the doorknob, then even louder whimpering.

_Small Cake_

Papa came in, two plates and two pieces of cake in hand. Chocolate, just like John had hoped. He didn’t want it to be anything else. Chocolate reminded him of Papas’ brown hair, of the radio that sat in the living room, of the hat Papa always wore to work,

Of his papa.

_Small lives_

The mattress sunk in on one side, John tipping over only slightly at the newly added weight.

(Sinking feeling, was he the mattress?)

Papa handed him a piece of cake, placing it on top of corduroy slacks, hand going straight to his hair. More skin, more metal, less heat.

“John, I know we were going to spend time together. And we will, I promise. Just...” A pause to end all pauses, a 2 second silence would prove to be too much; the whimpering had now become choked sobs. The sound stuck in the room, in their eardrums, the source unknown.

“Papa has something he needs to do. But he’ll be back, and when he does, he’ll listen to the radio with you and eat chocolate cake and teach you how to toss a pitch, just like those baseball players.”

The hand tightened.

“But, you’ve got to be the man of the house while I’m gone, okay? So, put on a brave face, like this.” His face contorted into faux ruggedness, chest out and lips straight.

Then a kiss, a kiss to layer on top of the ruby red one that still burned on his forehead, one that wanted to glue him to his Papa, to never let him go. Just as soon as it had landed, it went away, vaporized into thin air.

And it was at this moment that on December 7th, 1941, John Watson began to regret his birthday.

_Small Worries_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with me, the story does get better from here, I promise. I do appreciate the Kudos that I've gotten so far, very sweet of those of you reading. :)

Snow – Frozen water falling from packaged, puffy water in the sky. It comes in, covers the ground in its ivory glow and whets the palate of every child within its grasp. As soon as it comes, it’s as though every flake takes a degree down with it, temperatures dropping into the low 20’s, the people were lucky if they got to hear it get higher than 30.  
  
 _Boring._

Curly bangs couldn’t cover bright blue eyes, blue eyes that only shone brighter with all of the white madness that encapsulated it. The noirette grimaced through the window, his purple turtleneck sweater thick around his neck while he leaned on the windowsill. From the part of the house he was in, he could see Wrigley Field – though it wasn’t that he wanted to. Baseball was, even after being broken down to its most basic parts of men hitting and chasing after a mass of yarn and rubber, absolutely _boring._

“Sherlock dearie, come down for dinner, won’t you?” A voice called from the lower half, each syllable as prim and proper as the last. The tone was not one of urgency, so Sherlock could tell that he had a few minutes to dawdle before that assumption had become invalid. And that he did, continuing to watch the people that littered the streets like ants; ants, the same kind he used to burn with the magnifying glass he’d gotten from his mother earlier that year. He’d set so many of the tiny insects on fire that he’d started to wonder if he was some kind of god to them, giving them life on some days and becoming the harbinger of destruction on the others.  
  
What an interesting summer that had been.  
  
“Sherlock, are you there?” No more prim, still proper; now two pitches higher, slightly frantic but still enough to ignore and still get leeway on. He’d started to internally debate on whether or not running down the stairs would make a difference, perhaps then she would calm down. He quickly came to his own conclusion – no, it would not.

Choosing to return to his window, he watched as families walked up and down the road; Siblings going hand in hand as they walked – Sherlock began to fill in the sounds of crunching snow beneath boots, patches of sticky snow on the leather meeting the layers on the ground, a sound that he was all too familiar with on his late night escapades when mother and father were asleep and Mycroft was snug in his bed. He wondered if the other childrens’ boots sounded like his – exactly the same. Shades deeper? Shallower?

_Now footsteps, slow ones, the pressure on each of the steps nearly equal. Methodical and neat._

Sherlock paid it no mind, opting instead to continue to look out of his window. His focus was now on the woman walking down the street, two children in tow, brown paper bags in her hands as she walked, Milk carton tops spilling out on top of green carrot tops and white egg containers.  
  
Grocery Shopping.  
  
The older of the two children – a little girl with long, curly honey brown hair hidden underneath a pair of earmuffs – was dragging a smaller boy of the same hair color behind her. He appeared to be struggling, tripping over tiny feet while attempting to fill the tracks in the snow that had been left behind by his sibling with his own two feet as well. Sherlock had become so interested in watching this little dance that he hadn’t realized the new presence at his door.

“Mother gets really upset when you do that, you know.” Cracking vocal chords broke out, Sherlock turning to greet it with the sweetest grin he could muster. It wasn’t that he did it on purpose, as upsetting his mother was only third on a list of priorities that he had, but getting his brother to speak to him in such a time of change, puberty creeping up on him, was certainly crawling up to number one.  
  
“I’m coming, Mycroft. Tell her I’ll be down in a bit.” Sherlock merely waved him away at this point, his attention going back to the streets. The family was gone now, two children, one boy he had become so focused on that he forgot his own methods of thought.

“She’s waiting. She wants us all to eat dinner together, with her _boys._ ” Mycroft hissed the word boys, teasing at the truth that stood out so clear to both of them. They were only boys, boys who would still be with their mother, not like the men.

The men who were lost to the war.   
  
At this remark, Sherlock was defeated.  Their father had been pulled in the draft, as were many of the men who lived in Chicago, and the rest of America for that matter. Sherlock pulled himself away from the glass, feet dragging as he went to the door, socks creating friction.  
  
In the back of his mind, the little boys’ dance played in his head.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sat at the dinner table, his fork poking at peas with disdain. He was not one for family dinners, unlike the rest of the Holmes family, who sat around the table and talked about their lives like they were the most important things to each other, or to themselves. His mother knew this; letting him eat wherever he so pleased as long as it meant that he was well fed. Sherlock hadn’t been as grateful to his mother for such an opportunity as he should have; realizing that sitting across from his brother was something he was not looking forward to doing every night for the rest of his life – or even the rest of the night, for that matter.

Mycroft Holmes watched his little brother, cheeks full of air while his feet swung and wiggled underneath the table. Aside from the smile on his mothers’ face as her sons sat down to eat with her, it was the pout  on his baby brothers face that came of it that was the cherry on top of the milkshake.

Being thirteen, Mycroft knew more about the military than most boys his age – his father attributed this to a long line of Holmes men that showed courage and vigilance out in battle, while his mother attributed it to the hormones and eagerness to fight that was found in every boy his age. Mycroft wore pressed white, button-up shirts, and khaki pants nearly everywhere he went – his parents refused to buy him a matching blazer, out of fear he might get picked up for the draft – a running joke in the family that everyone but Sherlock laughed at.

Either way, Mycroft Holmes was a budding Military aficionado, inside and out.

Mycroft and his mother sat at the table, discussing various things about the United States entering the war, subsequently heard over the radio only hours before. Sherlock always took this kind of opportunity to completely get lost in his own little world, his attitude only reflecting the phrase “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.”

Sherlock started to make figures out of the peas on his plate, first making a stick man with a large head and stubby arms before coming up with elaborate schemes – constellations he had read about in his fathers’ old encyclopedia while spending his time hiding from the other children on the street, or as he liked to refer to them as, _“The other kids”_

“Sherlock, are you alright?” His mother called out to him, realizing that in the last 30 minutes that she had been speaking with Mycroft, the other boy was dead silent. Sherlock nodded his head, reading the reason for her persistence in speaking with him in her face all too well; the frown lines in her cheeks grew more prominent when it came to Sherlock and, in most cases, his father. Her worry engulfed all other emotions, leaving behind what others called a nervous wreck.

Sherlock saw no reason for this, as his father was not a subject he cared too much to get into; to him, it was as simple as “I’m his son, he is my father.” Sherlocks’ father saw Mycroft the golden child, encouraging his love for the Military – seeing as how they’d grown from such a family of fighters in the past. Mycroft was the one who garnered the attention of their parents and the schoolchildren, always escaping for this reason or that to go play baseball with the others at the field behind their house or tag or any of the other reindeer games.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was not as interested in sports or the military like the other sheep children, instead deciding to follow interests he had in little things like why his tears were salty but his spit wasn’t, or how long he could run between the mailbox and the door before he was tired. To his father, it was strange, stranger than he cared to admit. To Sherlock, it was discovery – it kept him from being bored, which was always a looming threat in his mind.

Even so, Sherlock would not say that he hated his father, as he was obligated to love him no matter what – his mother always saying things like “family is important” or “family is all we have in this world.”

Sherlock pushed his plate away; his fun with the small green vegetables was over as soon as it had begun.   
  
“May I be excused?”

A pause, a slight faltering in the response.  
  
“But of course, dear. Wash up before you go to bed, alright? I love you.”  
  
No response.   
  
Sherlock slipped out of his chair, feet meeting the ground with a slight thud, the distance between the seat of the chair and Sherlock proving too great for a quiet escape. Those black curls bounced with every step he took as he ran from the room, going back upstairs to sit back at his window and watch the others down below, a fascination that only he partook in.

Sherlock Holmes rang in 1942, all alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the views, I really do appreciate it. And I do appreciate the fact that people are actually reading it, and I hope that I don't bore you guys too much.
> 
> Last introductory chapter, the boys won't be separated for long, I promise.

The crisp post-holiday air stuck heavily in the wind that blew by near the bus stop; Sherlock couldn’t shield his face enough from the sting, his pale skin burning red even under all of the layers that he wore. He pulled up his black scarf up around his lips, squinting as the snowflakes flew by his cheeks. He clutched the books in his hands tighter, silently praying that they would weigh him down so that the wind wouldn’t blow him away. The longer he stood outside waiting, the more he realized how much he detested long exposure to the cold like this – even if his black jacket was the main object of his outfit at all times. His purple gloves seemed to be the only piece of his outfit doing their job, his hands warmer than the rest of his body, only causing him to pout further, chapped lips permitting.

Mycroft watched his brother through his thick navy blue wool coat, his red scarf tucked between the buttons. Sherlock had been fidgeting the entire time, though if it was through boredom or through being uncomfortable with the low temperatures, he could not tell. He could hear the rattle of change in Sherlocks’ pocket as he moved – money for lunch, as mother found that making lunches for the children was something that cut into their morning routine by a wide margin, sometimes the boys missing the school bus and having to take the public one instead. He could only think about all of the letters mother would get because of that, and she opted that the school lunches would prove to be the easiest form of nourishment.

Sherlock was now shaking uncontrollably, crossing his arms tightly around his small frame as to conserve as much body heat as possible. Sherlock, being as tall as he was thin, couldn’t afford to lose any body heat – unlike his brother who was taller than him, but had noticeably more insulation, to put it gently.

He stared at the houses across the street, cataloging what he knew and didn’t know about the families that resided inside.

The house on the corner: nothing. Perhaps no family had lived there at all, or perhaps he hadn’t ever bothered to pay attention; either way, nothing.

The house next to it: one family, three children and mom and pop. The woman just had a baby boy, and her other two children were in the level below Mycroft’s grade – two girls who were obnoxiously standing next to him at the bus stop, chattering away about how they couldn’t wait for the upcoming dance and every boy that seemed to tickle their fancy.  
  
Sickening.

This process went on for a few minutes, every demographic of the homes being precisely deciphered, Sherlock still shivering but managing to distract himself from the cold that nipped his ears. He would kill for a pair of earmuffs, the same kind like that the little girl standing near him at the bus stop wore – the same girl he had spotted on the street only weeks ago. How he had not noticed her before seemed to be the outstanding question in Sherlocks’ mind, and how he hadn’t met her brother seemed to match it in its severity of curiosity.  
  
“Harriet!” One of the little girls from the extended nuclear family called out to her, and she turned around with unbridled surprise. Sherlock began to unravel their interaction, deciding on whether or not she was happy to see them or incredibly fearful – though after informal greetings and more chattering about dances, Sherlock was not surprised to learn they were all on the same level.

The roar of an engine pulled him out of his analysis of the girls, and not a moment too soon, as he was wondering if the numb tingle in his brain was due to the babble or the cold. All of the children poured onto the bus, Mycroft grabbing his hand and guiding him gently on as to make sure he wasn’t trampled. Sherlock followed willingly, however putting up a minor struggle as to defiantly show his brother that he was independent enough to walk on by himself.

He opted to sit in a seat all alone, putting his books next to him as to avoid any unwanted attention that may come his way in the form of another warm body with no brain attached. The window on the bus faced the homes that he had just spent unwavering amounts of time cataloging, and yet something new had caught his eye. In the window of the home on the corner, the one he found himself knowing nothing about, a patch of brown hair poked out from behind curtain.

Harriets’ brother was looking right at him.  
  
Sherlocks eyes widened, his curiosity piqued at the sight. Somehow, he had learned something new, more pieces of information to put into the files he kept in his brain. This one went under “Mysterious people,” the brown haired boy being the only one in this category.

Their eyes locked, one noticing while the other had not, until the bus had driven away.

* * *

 

School days were always so hectic in the Watson house, even with one child who was actually attending school.

Harriet was a difficult child to deal with, always having a complaint or two about the outfit she wore or the way mother did her hair – she wanted it up, not down; she wanted pigtails, not a ponytail – every detail was crucial. Thankfully, Mrs. Watson was a patient woman, her husband keeping John busy in the mornings while she got right to work on Harriet. Once everything was to Harriets liking, the Watsons would sit down and have 20 minutes of “morning family time,” the children eating breakfast while Mr. Watson read the newspaper and Mrs. Watson told her children one thing she loved about them, everyday it was different – the routine never faltered.

Those mornings were gone.

Mrs. Watson woke up the children, first Harriet then John, with a nudge and a soft voice. Harriet stirred, always being an easy child to wake up. She rolled over at first, letting out a small groan and putting her arm up to wave away the intruder on her sleep. Mrs. Watson smiled, and then nudged her again.  
  
“Harriet, it’s time for school.” Mrs. Watson spoke, running her fingers through curls to coax her away from dreamland and back to reality. After she was positive that Harriet was awake, her attention then went to John. She went to his bed, nudging the small shoulders; John didn’t wake, steady rising and falling of his chest indicating the sleep was still just as deep.

Mrs. Watson sighed; John was an even lighter sleeper, the tiniest sounds waking him up at night. She could recall the times when John would wake up and drag his blanket down to his parents’ room, waking her up at all hours of the night with excuses like “I heard a noise in the closet”, this timid behavior gaining him a spot in between the Watson parents every time. She had entertained the possibility of John being deeply affected by his father going to war, the noticeable signs in his increased interest in the radio and the newspaper, asking her to read it to him every chance she got.

She allowed him to sleep, stroking his hair lightly as to not disturb him. As she pulled away her hand, John whimpered, his lips trembling at the loss of contact.

It was heartbreaking.  
  
Mrs. Watson guided Harriet out of the room, handing her clothes to change into and giving her instructions on how to get herself ready – deciding that with a one parent home, Harriet could get herself ready, to which Harriet did not object. She took her clothes, and walked out of the room.  
  
Once Harriet was out of the line of fire, Mrs. Watson picked up the sleeping boy, who was now whimpering even more, tears streaming silently down his face. She cradled his head in her hands, wrapping her arms around him while he unconsciously gripped tiny fingers around her nightgown.

They sat in silence,

Mother and child,

Mama and John.

* * *

 

Johns eyelids split open, his unwillingness to let light in was evident in the way he continued to squint. His pupils forced him to adjust, however, and he began to blink as many times as he could to appease the ache at first being introduced to the brightness invading his baby blues.

He shuffled his body forward, sitting up in the bed while he surveyed the room in a daze. Harriets bed was completely empty, his first reaction to noticing this was to call out for his mother – fright took over his vocal chords.  
  
“Mama?” He called out, his own voice just echoing back to him. There was no answer, and John could feel the panic pooling in his stomach. All he could think was that his family had gone to go with his father, leaving him all alone.  
  
At this thought, he began to cry loudly – his only reaction to having found out that his family abandoned him. He didn’t want to get out of the bed, thinking that if he did, he would have to walk around an empty house with no way of figuring out about Papa, and certainly no way of seeing him again.  
  
The crying continued until he was scooped up and pressed to his mothers’ side, hands balled into fists over his eyes while he tried to rub away the salty liquid. His mother rubbed his back, trying to calm him down before he finally noticed that his mother was the one holding him, which silenced his cries immediately.

The room was filled with sniffles and words of reassurance such as I’m here and I love you. After John had fully calmed, she put him down and allowed him to wrap his hand around two fingers – as much as he could muster as a full hand hold. They walked out of the room, hand in finger, before the sound of the bus quickly approaching caused John to go into a full sprint to the window.

He poked his head through the curtain, always curious to see the other children getting onto the bus on their way to school. John couldn’t wait to be able to attend the school and get to learn the names of so many different people, but he would have to wait until the fall – his birthday betraying his ability to attend school at the time.

Harriet waved at him from the window before stepping onto the bus, John giving a tiny wave back and then staring into the windows of the bus as it drove away.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon proved to not be much warmer than the morning, snow no longer falling as heavily as it had been in the earlier hours, for which Mrs. Watson was grateful or else she would never have gotten any grocery shopping done. She stood in the kitchen, making a snack for John who sat intently in the living room, listening to the radio as he always had been. However, instead of the news, it was music and entertainment radio, charismatic radio talk show hosts piping out music and other things as they entertained their guests.

There was a knock at the door, Mrs. Watson removing the food from the stove and putting it on the counter. She called for John, who ran in without a second thought and took his food off of the counter, carrying it to the table and eating contentedly.

Mrs. Watson opened the door to see two men in uniform at her door; one man held a flag folded in a triangle while the other held a plaque. Both of them stared at Mrs. Watson, their faces straight while their eyes seemed to diffuse despair – this was the worst part of their jobs.

Without saying a word, Mrs. Watson broke down at the door, covering her mouth as to not let John hear the pained screams that escaped her throat. The two men caught her before she could faint, helping her steady herself as her legs caved in beneath her, and her body fought the confusion and pain.

John watched silently from the kitchen, watching his mother fall to the ground in front of two men with reckless abandon. He twisted his fingers in his hands, his breathing slow and heavy.

It would be almost a year before he would see Mama smile again.


	4. Chapter 4

_“The temperature is projected to be nearly 85 degrees today…”_

John laid his body down on the floor of his living room, staring up at the ceiling with a blank stare. Mama hadn’t been home all day, and the babysitter was sleeping on the couch, her pale lips hanging wide open while scratchy breaths escaped. The ponytail that her hair had been tied into was now falling loosely on her shoulders, stringy brown locks dangling against her cheek. He glanced her way, sighing loudly to drown out her snoring.

It had been like this for weeks now, John being stuck with this _stranger_ – Mama called her “Margaret”, he refused – for hours on end while she went out and worked. The war made it easy for mothers to find jobs, the military needed man power and woman power alike, which John didn’t mind. It meant Mama had something to distract her, instead of spending all of her time begging Grandma for money and crying over Papa.

It had been nearly 5 months to the day since he had found out about Papa, Mama tried to hold it together the best she could for the first week – making him and his sister dinner at their usual time, sitting down with them and talking to them about little things, Harriet going on and on about the girls in her class saying silly things, and how her teacher, Mrs. Hudson, had just recently found out that her husband was KIA, or “killed in action” as the teacher had graciously informed them. Harriet let it slip that Mrs. Hudson had told them about how much she hated her husband, and was even happier that he was killed, something that Mama didn’t even bat an eye at.

She would always stuff her mouth full of whatever Mama cooked – she loved all of Mamas cooking – and then would steal some off of Johns’ plate, fueling a little tantrum that resulted in a kicking match under the table.

In the entire time that the two of them would fight and bicker, Mama hadn’t said a word. She merely watched the chair sitting across the table, her green eyes as clarion as the diamond in her wedding ring, had dulled in murky pools. Soon the two children had started to catch on, their fighting always interrupted before someone got a little too intense, or hurt.

“Mama?” Harriet whispered quietly, nudging the woman next to her. The minute that Mama hadn’t responded, Harriet started pushing harder; her efforts had clearly become not one of rousing life back into Mrs. Watson, but of forcing it. John watched Harriet, hoping that she could bring her back single-handedly.   
  
Mrs. Watson just sat stone still in the chair, still staring at the chair. Her breathing was the loudest thing in Johns’ ears, and he flew from the seat to grab his sisters’ arm. Harriet looked back at her little brother, his pupils so small that his eyes started to resemble a blue Frisbee caught in a pool of milk; he tried to stop her, little arms pulling as hard as they could onto her wrist that he ended up dragging her to the floor. They both fell on the custard linoleum with a heavy thud, and Mrs. Watson was still stuck in her own little world.

Harriet continued to be sprawled all over John, both of them gasping for air. Johns’ own mind started to fight against him, his hands slipping across the slick floor while he started to hyperventilate wildly, his legs kicking to get the extra weight off of him. Harriet pushed her body off of the floor, then grabbed Johns hand and made a mad dash for the door.

Both of the children went to the neighbors’ house, banging furiously at the door. The banging came at various wavelengths and speeds, Harriet doing hers in a slow, patient rhythm while John was still on an adrenaline high. The door was then opened by a man with greying, peppered hair, his frown stretched so far that it caused a split between the top and bottom halves of his face. His grey pajamas were the only things that contrasted with the moonlight that filled otherwise pitch black streets.

They pulled their hands back and held them up, Harriet quickly putting them behind her back while her brother kept his up, frozen.  
  
“Oh, Um. ..Excuse me sir…Can you help us? It’s our Mom, she was eating dinner with us, and she just-“ Harriet began, her hands shaking.

“There’s something wrong! She needs help! Please help!” John screamed, waving his hands and pointing back in the direction of their house. Harriet and the neighbor both looked over at John, eyes wide like dinner plates. That seemed to be enough incentive for him to help, as he allowed himself to be lead back to their house, soon taking the lead once he got to the door. He stopped as he got into the kitchen, distracted temporarily by the sight of the beautiful woman before him.

Mrs. Watson hadn’t even acknowledged his presence, making him aware of the severity of the situation. He walked over to her cautiously, sitting down in the chair where Harriet had previously sat. He folded his hands in front of him, watching her gaze steadily.   
  
“Um, Excuse me. Can you hear me?” Nothing.

He then moved his attention to what she had been gazing at, his face twisting into something that was akin to deep thought. He then opened his eyes wide, an idea forming. He shifted to the seat that she had been looking at, sitting right across from her before folding his arms in front of his body again.

This seemed to cause something to stir inside of Mrs. Watson, her lips pursing slightly. Her shoulders shifted, her chest rising and falling heavily before tears started to spill freely down her cheeks. She didn’t blink once before they started falling faster, her blush now being smudged and her eyeliner tinting the liquid.   
  
“Richard…”

Harriet and John stared at their mother, then at each other, exchanging glances.

Richard was Papa’s first name.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock fiddled with the new green vegetable that had appeared on his plate: Broccoli. If there was one thing he was finding he regretted most about this whole “family dinner” concept, it was the vegetables. He knew how easily he could smuggle in candy with the small bit of money that his mother had given him a while back for doing a good job on his tests – a concept that was not new to him, as he always managed to get a high score on the tests he took, his mother had just recently started rewarding him for it – but, getting caught and scolded seemed to be a con that outweighed the pro.

Mycroft had been going on and on about a girl in his class, one that he found to be so absolutely wonderful that he had decided that he would ask her to the dance. He claimed to have known her real name, even though everyone knew her by something different every single time, from Evelyn to Rita to Anthea. Sherlock just smirked, knowing that even if she wouldn’t tell anyone else in the class her name, why would she tell him?

Mrs. Holmes tried to start conversation with Sherlock at school, asking him about students or teachers or anything that would get him talking. His answers were very simple, things like “school is stupid.” Or “the teachers are twits” and, the longest thing he could comment thus far, “There’s a kid in my class that everyone calls by his last name, Anderson. He’s always talking about how he’s smarter than me, but I don’t know why. He’s probably dumber than the desk; at least the desk can retain information,” a sly dig at the fact that students doodled all over them in their free time.

Mycroft gave a plastic smile, the emotion so fake that Sherlock could see himself selling it as a cheap knockoff.  “If you go fighting with the other kids like that, you’re not going to have any friends. Be careful, Sherlock.”

“Thanks, _dad.”_  

Sherlock huffed before excusing himself to retire at his window.

* * *

 

**_“Couple of jiggers of moonlight and add a star…”_ **

The bedroom was dark, John lie in his bed and stared at the wall while his sister slept in her bed. He was half tempted to go crawl under the covers with her, but the idea was erased as soon as it had come. All John could think about was why his mother had not come home yet – it was late, and he was worried.

His mother had been staying out later and later for the last week; not coming home until nearly midnight and by then the babysitter was on edge and ready to pull her hair out. The anger was usually dissipated by the pay that Mrs. Watson gave her, and then she would leave and his mother would come in and give them both little kisses and whisper good things in their ears while they dreamt.

But, she wasn’t home yet.

**_“Pour in the blue of a June night and one guitar…”_ **

John tried to think of any reason why his mother hadn’t come back, from an extended shift to the beginnings of a large kidnapping scheme that would result in him teaming up with his sister to come up with an elaborate solution that would involve weapons and chemicals; that caused him to smirk despite himself.

Just as he continued to think about the possibilities, the door was opened. The creak was deliberate, as though someone were trying to open it slowly and quietly but was doing a spectacularly terrible job at it, the click that corresponded closing of the door could not be heard, however judging by the lack of terrified shrieks coming from the babysitter, John had surmised that it wasn’t a murder. A small wave of relief washed over him.

**_“Mix in a couple of dreamers, and there you are…”_ **

He could hear the babysitters voice loud at first, then in hushed tones soon after. Then, silences save for the shuffling of feet and body weight. His mothers’ voice could be heard, then more shuffling followed by the sounds of heavy breathing and muttering in mixed, sporadic tones. There was a thud against the wall, then giggling and finally more breathing.

John imagined that someone was fighting a monster that laughed instead of growled, that quietly attacked its victims by tossing them against the wall over and over again to sedate them before it finally gobbled them up in one fell swoop. While he gathered the courage to get into the hallway to check, his mind continued to entertain him with ridiculous possibilities and even sillier ideas for the name of this mysterious beast: the chuckle chomper? The giggle glut?

The sounds started getting faster, and the shuffling fainter – moving towards the end of the hallway where his parents’ room stood. It was at this point John started to entertain the idea of a real threat, his heart rate increasing as he tossed the covers off, rolling over onto the floor and hitting the carpet on his stomach. He coughed, then stilled – hoping the cough would not ruin the element of surprise that he had in store for his intruder.

He slunk over to the closet, still on belly and elbows, and slipped the baseball bat out. He had been saving it for when he would get to play a game with Papa, a game that he coldly realized would not come to fruition. But, he would be able to make his Papa proud by scaring away anyone who dare come near his Mama, and to him that was enough.

He strapped the bat to his back with a string from his kite, and then continued to slink on the floor out of the room and into the hallway. The figure had been standing at the door to his parents’ room, the door slightly ajar as the figure started pushing its way in. John saw this as an opportunity to get his bat out, strike, and beat this person senseless before they even had a chance to attack. It was flawless.

As he grabbed the wall for support, he heard the familiar voice of his mother from the room.

She was home.

He paused, briefly wondering why his mother hadn’t come to see him, but then the thought that perhaps she was being cornered by her attacker clouded his judgment. He reached for the bat on his back, going in for the kill.

“Oh god, you’re wonderful. Shh…Shh…the kids, they’ll hear us. Get in here.”

The figure at the door laughed, pulling his mother back into the doorframe for just a moment and wrapping his arms around her, his head going beneath hers as he started to feast on the tender spot on her neck. She giggled again, and the sounds of heavy breathing reared its ugly head once more.

The two figures flew into the room, and the door shut behind them, not a sound to be heard.

John dropped the bat he held in his hands on the floor, his mind trying to process everything that had just happened: His mother was laughing, laughing with a stranger, and taking him into the room where she spent all of her life with Papa in.

It was too much to handle.

Before he even realized it, John was unlocking the front door, and running out of the house.

**_"Lovers hail the moonlight cocktail..."_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now that we're past the super awkward introductory stage, now we can start getting into the real parts of the story. 
> 
> Lovely. ;)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. I am so grateful for the kudos and the hits that I've gotten so far! I'm even more excited to write these chapters for you guys now, and though I get a bit nervous when I post them, I am always reassured by the feedback. So thank you.
> 
> Enjoy~

Oh how wonderful.

Sherlock shuffled around in the nearly dark streets of Chicago, his mostly black attire making him nearly invisible as he crawled his way through alleys and hid behind lamp posts, hoping that perhaps he would be able to notice something new about this city in which he lived.

Daytime Chicago was always busy and loud, bustling with people trying to get to their jobs – which were in high supply during this war time. Others were usually mothers or housewives, all sitting around and trying to make the best of what they considered to be a bad situation – losing their husbands and missing them day in and day out. Radio waves were being poured into the streets through open windows while women did the housework, and the rest of it was just children at school that were all gossiping about absolute nonsense.

He couldn’t stand it.

At night, Sherlock could walk around the streets without a single person to tell him otherwise. He had been doing things like this for as long as he could remember, police officers getting calls about a 4 year old child who had supposedly “runaway”, only to find him lurking in a dumpster. The night that he was brought home, he tried to explain to his mother that he was trying to determine the source of the bad smell that was always hanging around one of his classmates, claiming that judging by the smell of the dumpster, that child had to have lived in it for all he knew. However that excuse seemed insufficient and he was promptly grounded. He grimaced at the memory.

He had gotten much smarter than then, however, now being sure to ‘hide in plain sight,’ wearing the black coat he had gotten from his brother – the one that Mycroft ended up outgrowing, though Sherlock wasn’t surprised – and a pair of black pants that he usually wore for Sunday school. It soon was known to him as a late night adventure outfit, only donning it on a night such as this.

Sherlock tip toed through the alleyways, his magnifying glass and fathers pocket watch continually crashing against one another in his pocket. The magnifying glass was to get a closer look at things he deemed interesting, trying his own little method of learning things and being able to read people – a method that he started to develop after being the only one in the class to notice that the teacher had been cheating on her husband due to how her ring was much different from his mothers, dirty and scratched, and how she frequently visited the classroom of another teacher and, at one point, even kissed him in the teachers’ lounge at the school. Although he never voiced it to the other students, he found that even having that little bit of information was enough entertainment and even much more valuable information – information that couldn’t compare to the arithmetic he had been forced to learn with the others. The pocket watch was to make sure he was out just long enough to return home before his mother found out – making sure that he wouldn’t make the same mistake of getting home at sunrise.

He strolled through the streets, closing his eyes in the silence of the city while the gears in his mind turned like a well-oiled machine, not a single stutter or grinding noise intact. The night was when he found his mind at maximum efficiency, and although he was normally a grumpy child during the day, he was like a contented cat during the evening. It was bliss.

The inner workings of his mind were soon interrupted, the gears slowing as they ground against each other by the sudden noise that came from behind, one he was able to identify as the rhythm of footsteps. He felt a tingle in his spine, the footsteps fast approaching – the same way that the police officers steps sounded as they searched the city high and low for him. Sherlock had believed that he was caught, and he turned around to verify his assumption, hoping that the police office was a slow one, giving him a chance to escape. The only thing that came next was a force of impact that knocked him onto his back.

Sherlock felt the air escape his lungs, black curls falling into his face as he was knocked down by the other body that had been quickly approaching. He couldn’t help but think about how he should study footprints and walking next, merely to avoid such an incident again, but the thought was done away with when the pavement met his back and a searing pain rushed through him. He could only groan, the gears now spinning out of control and producing smoke at the mere friction – thinking only of what he would say to this clumsy intruder, and even more how he would do so without waking up the entire neighborhood, or aggravating the burning inside of his chest from the weight on top of him.

The two bodies lay on the ground for what seemed like hours, Sherlock panting heavily to compensate for the other person on top, and the other person on top panting merely to restore the energy that was lost from what Sherlock concluded was constant exercise. Who would be out at this hour trying to get fit?

Sherlock demanded answers.

“Excuse me, would you please GET OFF?” Sherlock emphasized the last two words, nearly growling them through bared teeth as the annoyance started to diffuse through his face. He continued to stare at the sky, resolving to meet his attacker face-to-face as soon as they were both on level ground. The other body tensed on top of him, then scrambled to their feet and reached out a hand to him. Sherlock ignored the offered help, his independence still much too strong for his own good. As he got to his feet, he started to brush his jacket off, using this as a time to calmly collect his thoughts before he spoke.

“Sorry, are you okay? I didn’t hurt ya, did I?” The voice was tiny, although Sherlock was surprised seeing as how the way he was tackled, the pain resulting was not. The question still did nothing to quell the rising emotions in Sherlock, and he merely shook his head.

“No, but you should watch where you’re going. The streets aren’t that dark, so it’s not hard to get a good look around.” He stated, being sure to mock the intelligence of the stranger one variable at a time. He turned his attention to the stranger now, deciding that this opportunity was better than none to enhance his skills while getting to make sure that he would not be bothered in another adventure night.

He was met with the sight of copper brown hair, shiny in the moonlight/streetlight hybrid, coupled with a pair of nearly navy blue eyes and a set of puffy, red cheeks that made his lips seem nonexistent. The white shirt he wore only reflected these colors, the only thing that seemed to allow Sherlock to see the outline of the tiny body before him. He found himself tilting his head at a nearly sixty degree angle, the shorter one looking back up at him.

It was the mysterious boy, right in front of him.

The other boy gasped and stepped backwards, nervous now that the person he had accidentally assaulted was making full eye contact with him. He sniffled loudly, rubbing his eyes furiously with his bare arm as to help the moisture that flooded them evaporate quickly.  
  
“Um. Sorry. I didn’t mean to run into you. I was running from…” A quick pause while he tried to think of an excuse. “…Um. I mean, I lost my… erm…ball, yes, the ball that goes with this baseball bat. Have you seen one anywhere?” He pointed to his back, and then the red tint deepened on his face as he realized he had left the bat back at his home, now shaking his head again. “Er, nevermind-“

“You were crying.”

The brown haired boy eyes went wide, and he started frowning at the accusation. He sniffled again, and then huffed, his breathing ragged. He brought a hand to his mouth and wiped his lips, shaking his head wildly while his attention went to the curly haired boys shoes. “No, No. Boys don’t cry, and I wasn’t crying, and you’re crazy if you think that I was, cause my papa-“  
  
Sherlock watched as the boy fought furiously with himself, covering his mouth to avoid letting the other see his lips tremble while he held back the hot tears that threatened to escape. He could tell that the increase pace in his breathing had something to do with the crying as well, remembering how the other children in his class would always have that same breathing pattern that was always preceded a full blown crying session, usually brought on by not getting ones way.

“You don’t have to hide it. I can tell that you were crying, and that you’re about to do it again.” Sherlock hadn’t intended on making his words sound so blunt, but his emotionless tone did nothing to help, and soon, the other boys shoulders were trembling.

“No…No, I-I’m not. And you’re a liar.” The tears started coming back, and Sherlock felt a new found pain in his stomach that he couldn’t ignore. He frowned at the sight of the boy who was now angrily crying in front of him, wiping his face every so often with his shirt.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist, only eliciting a soft jerk from the other boy, but surprisingly, no resistance whatsoever. The ache in his stomach continued, though he could care less at the moment. He had somehow stopped the others crying, the boy now staring blankly at him before diverting attention to his wrist, then back to Sherlock.

“It’s okay if you cry. But, don’t do it here. Let’s go.” Sherlock said nothing else, instead dragging the other boy down the sidewalk without another word. He wouldn’t look back at the rosy cheeked boy, the one who was now watching him with astonishment and curiosity.

 

* * *

  
  
“What’s your name?” He finally asked as they continued walking down the street, deciding that this moment was the best opportunity he had to learn, if there was anything to be learned at all, about the mysterious boy who lived down the street.

He heard a few more sniffles behind him, the weight of his companion growing heavier before Sherlock nearly felt like he was dragging a body. He turned around to see a slight pleading in the boys’ eyes, and he stopped along with him.  
  
“My wrist hurts.” He muttered, tugging his arm away softly before rubbing it between two fingers. Sherlock looked back at him, watching the way that he tended to his own arm. He couldn’t put his fingers on it, though he was certain that there was something about this person that intrigued him, and he was determined to figure out what.

Sherlock held out his hand, his wide palm quickly filled with a smaller one. He felt fingers wrap around his own, and then tighten before being tugged forward only slightly, a signal for the two to start walking together again. Sherlock then continued to lead him, staring at the buildings on the other side of the street while stealing quick glances at the shorter boy; he was interesting.  
  
The silence dragged on, Sherlock cataloging the sounds of his own footsteps against the others, shoes against pavement vs. bare feet against pavement; it was the soundtrack of his night, it seemed.

“John.”

Sherlock stopped taking in information for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.  
  
“What?”  
  
The other boy didn’t meet his gaze, and merely repeated.  
  
“John… My name is John.”  
  
For the first time that entire night,

For the first time since the beginnings of his adventures,

Sherlock smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of a difficult time trying to write this chapter; thus the late update. 
> 
> (Fingers crossed that I haven't butchered my own story)

**_Brrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnngggg…._ **

The alarm clock rang, the ringing hardly stirring the stiff teen that lay in bed, his arm reaching out for the contraption and swiftly switching it off. Mycroft was not one to sleep very lightly, even during school times, but his desire to want to sleep to a strict sleeping regime did not change when the school year was over, the one thing that pushed him to use an alarm clock even if he felt he didn’t need to. It was just a precaution, he told himself.

06:30, that’s a good time.

He sat up slowly in the bed, running thick, slender fingers through a head of ginger strands before sighing. The summer was such a tiring time, time that he could have spent learning about his career and preparing for it, he instead spent finding things to occupy his time with – things that usually included going out with classmates and listening to news radio. It wasn’t the best kind of time that a thirteen year old could have, but it was enough for him.

Mycroft shuffled out of his bedroom, still yawning even after having slept for the standard 8-9 hours that every human being managed – he attributed it to a vitamin deficiency, silently promising that he would eat better given how much extra time he had.

Summer vacation was good for something.

As Mycroft walked through the hallway, he heard the sounds of shuffling in Sherlocks’ room. Even being a big brother who constantly tortured his younger brother, Mycroft had a sense of endearment towards Sherlock he never cared to admit – though it wasn’t as though Sherlock cared to listen. Mycroft still managed to keep up the habit of checking on his brother in the mornings, making sure that Sherlock was sleeping soundly in bed – or was even in bed at all, for that matter. His brothers habit of sneaking out at night was not something that Mycroft was blind to, however, he found that when Sherlock snuck out at night, he was much more agreeable in the mornings, and so he allowed it to continue.

Mycroft slipped his head through the doorway of Sherlocks’ room; the sight that he was met with caused him to close the door so quickly he nearly slammed it on his neck.

His eyes searched around the hallway for an answer for what he saw; did the poor eating finally catch up with him? He wanted to reject the idea so harshly it was almost an insult to his younger brother, however having known Sherlock his entire life, the truth seemed to be the only thing that didn’t make sense. He braced himself again, and opened the door once more.

Sure enough, his eyes didn’t deceive him. In Sherlocks’ bed was a smaller body, lighter tufts of hair slipping against the side of his brothers chest – the color in his cheeks was a stark contrast from Sherlocks’, light brown and pink against snowy white. It was impossible to ignore as much as Mycroft wanted to.  
  
Sherlock had someone else in his room – in his bed.

“You’re going to wake him up if you stand there any longer.” Sherlock spoke, his eyelids fluttering open as he stared down at Mycroft, still lying in the bed. John shifted slightly at the sound, whimpering softly in his throat before his grip tightened on Sherlocks’ shirt and he made himself comfortable against the warm body. “You’ll attract flies if you keep your mouth open any longer.” He said, quoting the things their mother said to them.

Mycroft felt the cold air sliding against his tongue and realized his gaping, shutting his lips and keeping them rigid. It had been some time since he had been at a loss for words at his brothers’ actions, usually finding some purpose behind each and every one of them – but this. This was different. Sherlock was not one to find comfort in the presence of another human being, whether it was their mother or another child.

‘He certainly isn’t one to be so cautious as to make sure he didn’t wake up the other person.’ Mycroft noted, glancing at how careful Sherlock had been in being this strangers’ companion, his posture not one Sherlock was normally comfortable with – Sherlock was not one to sleep on his back – but he had stuck with it. For this boy who was sleeping next to him.

Mycroft felt a sense of curiosity begin its way through his veins.

Without another word, Mycroft closed the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft had come home from his morning errands, sweat causing his hair to stick to his skin as though they were glued together. The temperatures had risen quickly, causing Mycroft to cut the commute short as the heat had now reached the point of unbearable, still he was able to do the things that his mother had requested – picking up groceries and getting the medicine for her persistent cough were at the top of list, his plans to go to the library were put on hold.

He opened the door to the home, juggling all of the bags in his hands while his key worked the lock. He felt the metal tear from his hands as the door opened, the curly black hair meeting his eyes before anything else. Sherlock was scowling, for what reason Mycroft had not a clue in the slightest. As he stepped into the doorframe, the pieces came together at the sight of the boy from Sherlocks bed now at the table. Mycroft looked down at Sherlock, his face all but screaming his desire for Mycroft to leave immediately.

Mycroft put on his famous plastic smile, and got to work on his investigation. He walked into the kitchen, Sherlock in tow, his scowl now changed into a look of neutrality – the scowling he hoped to hide from John whenever possible.

“So what is your name?” Mycroft asked in his sweetest tone, garnering another ugly glance from Sherlock. John looked up from the coloring page he was working on, discontinuing the wide, messy strokes he made on the page to meet the gaze of the other Holmes boy.

“John.”

“And do you have a last name, John?” Mycroft pondered; his sweet voice without a crack in the slightest. This question proved to be too much for Sherlock, who was now trying to push him out of the room in as subtle a way as possible, his efforts not budging the teen who sat in the chair across from John. John merely stared at Mycroft, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and alarm at Sherlocks’ reactions. He tensed at Mycrofts’ continued presence.

“Watson…My name is John Watson.”

Mycroft felt the tug on his shirt that indicated that Sherlock was more fed up with him than he cared to voice aloud to John, and took his leave from there. Mycroft exited the room, a smirk playing on his lips. He could almost feel Sherlocks glare tearing into him, and he had to stifle a laugh.

Sherlock crawled into the chair that Mycroft had occupied and stared at the new face in his home, John only fixed on Mycroft before the teen went around the corner, then turning his gaze to Sherlock. Sherlock quickly turned his attention to something else in the room, now watching the curtains and the sunlight fight for dominance – the sunlight brightening and dimming at sporadic intervals.

There came a knock at the door, Sherlock deciding not to move this time as his resolve was to spend time with John, and it would be impeded by answering the door for unwanted visitors.

He could hear Mycrofts footsteps stomping their way towards the door, the intent of such unclear as Sherlock considered how much Mycroft weighed. He grinned at the thought, the door being pulled open slowly and then the sounds of a warm hello from the elder brothers’ mouth.

“Oh, yes, he’s right in here.”

 

* * *

 

 

John sat at the table, contentedly coloring a rabbit on a coloring page pink, not distinguishing between facial features like eyes and ears and a nose, the entire form of the rabbit completely pink. He pursed his lips slightly as he colored, his expression contorting into something of deep concentration as he drug the wax stick in large circles around the entire page.

He glanced up at his new friend, who was sitting next to him at the table, and smiled at him. Sherlock continued to stare out of the window, not noticing the warm gesture that had been made his way, and the smile quickly faded. Instead, the smaller boy went back to his coloring before he heard a high pitched squeal come from the other end of the room.

“Oh my god, John!”

Before he had time to speak, he was already arms deep into his sisters’ embrace. She nuzzled into his hair, as though taking in his scent before it was erased from her memory completely. John closed one eye against her, the two pressed together so hard that it almost seemed as though she was trying to fuse her body with his as to never get separated from him again.

She removed him from her arms and then got on one knee, meeting him face to face as he sat in the chair. Her eyes screamed worry while her lips screamed anger, but her voice cracked with gratitude.

“Where have you been? Mama and I were worried sick, you know! We thought that you were kidnapped…or worse.” Her eyes darted about him wildly, as though making sure that every single piece of him was okay, then turning back around to the teen that entered with her.

“Mycroft, where did you find him? When? Who found him? Was he hurt?” She asked so many questions it nearly made his head spin, and he slowly walked over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I didn’t find him, my little brother did. And he was in his bed when we woke up, I don’t know how he got here though…” Mycroft shrugged his shoulders gently, Sherlock ignoring the commotion all around him for now the sight of the chair across from him, his elbows supporting his weight as he leaned his head into his hands.

“I’m good, Harriet.” John finally spoke up after a moment, the room going quiet at the sound. The older children looked down at him, even Sherlocks attention now captivated. John shuffled nervously in his seat, his hands twisting together as he waited to see what his sister would say next.

Harriet sighed, standing up before tightly hugging her little brother again while John reciprocated, wrapping tiny arms around her frame. She then pulled him out of the seat and grabbed his hand, smiling brightly at him.

She extended an arm to Sherlock and began to wrap her arms around him, Sherlock pulling away slightly at this; Harriet instead ran a hand through his hair and ruffled the curls, nearly whispering a thank you while grabbing Johns hand tighter.

The Watson children excused themselves, John nearly falling over himself as he attempted to keep up with Harriet. He glanced back at Sherlock, who still sat in the chair just as focused on the other things in the room as he had when he first sat down.

“Bye, Sherlock.”

The door closed behind them.

 

* * *

 

 

John was overwhelmed by the way that Mama had grabbed him and thrown him around, nearly breaking him in half by the force. The more he tried to pull away, the tighter she grabbed him until he finally had to choke out that he couldn’t breathe, the comment only triggering a series of kisses that he couldn’t escape. Like a dog being cornered by a small child, John had no choice but to sit down and finally accept his fate.

“He was at Mycrofts house. You know Mycroft, the kid across the street … Mrs. Holmes oldest one; he rides my bus to school every day.” Harriet chimed in, in the middle of the kissing fit. Mama pulled away from John to acknowledge this fact, now deciding to abandon her distraught mindset to favor a more maternal and caring one.

“What were you doing over there, Johnny? It’s okay, you can talk to Mama, she won’t be mad. She just wants to know what’s wrong.” She stroked his arms, kneeling in front of him. John merely stared at her, his eyes wide and cautious while he searched for something in the room to contain himself with as to not meet the gaze of the woman in front of him.

“Do you want to talk about it? Come on, I just want to know why you went outside last night, that’s all.” She continued to rub on his arms, hoping to garner the attention of her boy that refused to look at her, the panic that pooled in her stomach now threatening to force its way through her spine and soon attack her thoughts.

“Mycroft says that he was in his little brothers room when he woke up.” Harriet added, walking in from the kitchen with a glass of apple juice.

Mrs. Watson’s shoulders visibly relaxed at this fact, a smile playing on her lips as she realized the only possible conclusion that she could think of.

“Did you want to go to your friends’ house last night, John? Oh baby, I’m sorry. Mama was out very late last night with work, and she didn’t know. But you can’t just LEAVE, sweetie. You have to ask me, or else you’re going to scare her like you did today. Okay?”

John vaguely heard this request, his mind tuning out as he reviewed the night before, remembering the figure that stood at the bedroom door and the things mama had said to it – it was like a broken record in his head. His head shifted down, his eyes fixed on his feet while Mama grabbed the sides of his head and planted a kiss right in the center.

“I’m going to go make you kids something to eat, you guys go out and play.” Mrs. Watson got to her feet, walking back towards the kitchen.

John pulled his head back up and watched as she walked back into the kitchen, waiting to see if she had really gotten out of his line of sight before furiously rubbing at his hair, scratching at his scalp until he could feel cold air sliding against his newly opened wound.

At that, John ran back into his room for the rest of the morning


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update, don't kill me. I've gotten so many nice things and comments and bookmarks and views and omg I love you guys thank you so much.
> 
> Hooray for run on sentences. 
> 
> Enjoy guys ~

“Ow! You’re hurting me!”

“Then stop moving around so much!”

“But it hurts too much!”

“John!”

Two boys sat on the steps in front of the home, a mass of curly black hair hovered over a tiny finger that was attached to a whimpering boy, tears streaming down his face as he tried to pry his hand away from the older boy who was staring intently at it. A hand would go to the finger, and a small cry would be heard before the hand would take itself away again, returning to the black shorts covered leg of the older boy.

“I can’t get this out unless you let me. So that means you have to stop crying and let me take it out or it stays and it keeps hurting.” Sherlock stared up at John, who was only pouting in response to the ultimatum. He didn’t want it to keep hurting, but he certainly wasn’t ready for the process entailed in removing the intruder in his finger, which only left him to be disgruntled and overall dissatisfied.

The front door of the Holmes home opened, the air conditioning giving the two boys a window of crisp air to calm their nerves before they both went to arguing on the porch once more. Mycroft stood in the doorway, watching the events unfold as Sherlock was becoming increasingly frustrated with John, who in turn only angrily cried and held his finger against his chest, refusing to let anyone look at it. The flush in his cheeks was partially because of the incredible mid-summer heat, and the other because he was embarrassed to be crying so much in front of Sherlock – something he blamed on the fact that his finger hurt, a reason he deemed didn’t make him a girl.

“What are you two doing?” Mycroft finally interjected after a few minutes of back and forth between the two, walking out of the home and onto the steps before sitting down between the two. Sherlock was taken aback, confused and slightly annoyed as to why Mycroft would do such a thing but allowed the separation nonetheless.

“John got a splinter, and now he won’t let me take it out because he’s stupid.” Sherlock said bluntly, glaring at John who only stuck his tongue out in response. The glare deepened.

“I won’t let ya cause it hurts…and…and it only happened cause your toys are dumb!” John rebutted, huffing loudly before pursing his lips into the biggest mean-looking, tough guy face he could manage.

“Toys? What Toys?” Mycroft asked aloud, attempting to get information from both sides before trying to remedy the obvious strain in their budding friendship. He found himself wanting to suppress a smirk amongst all of the chaos as he realized one thing that the two children had in common – they were both incredibly stubborn.

“Those!” John pointed to the two wooden swords that sat on the ground next to Sherlocks’ feet, the same swords that Sherlock had gotten for Christmas one year from his father once he proclaimed his new found desire to become a pirate and go in search of treasure and wonder – simply put, his parents wanted to support his dream of becoming an adventurer, and silently prayed that he would grow out of the Pirate dream in the year future.

So far, the dream hadn’t died.

“They’re not toys! They’re swords, pirate swords. We’re going to use those when we go out onto the seas and have to fight other pirates!”

“We?” Mycroft questioned once more.

“John said he was going to be a pirate with me, until he got a splinter and said he didn’t want to play anymore.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but sigh at the newfound discovery – these two were arguing over something as small as a splinter, something that could be fixed with a tub of hot water and a pair of tweezers. Still, he entertained the idea that this was more than just a little splinter, thinking back to how John had given up on the idea of pirate life so easily over it. The more he thought about it, the more it became clear – Sherlock wanted to help John, but had no idea how to do it, so he did it in the only way he knew how.

By being Sherlock.

“Oh dear. Can I see your finger, John?” Mycroft asked, plastic smile back in full force. John was nearly hypnotized by it, handing over his finger willingly while Mycroft examined it for the little brown line that was causing John so much distress. He saw the small piece right in the middle of John’s fingertip, stuck in such a way that wouldn’t allow him to even move it slightly without sending electricity through his entire hand.

“It’s all right; we’ll get you fixed up right away. C’mon John, Sherlock.” Mycroft gestured to the two, nudging Sherlock in the arm before grabbing onto John’s wrist and guiding him into the home.

Sherlock followed, his lips turned down into a subtle frown.

 

* * *

 

 

John sat at the table, juice box in hand with a bandage around his de-splintered finger. He had a package of crayons next to him, his hands going in those wide, uneven strokes of his while he sipped on apple juice and his feet swung underneath him, kicking the underside of the chair before going back out in quick, fierce movements. Now that the pain was out of his system, John was back to being content and quiet.

He heard the sounds of grumbles and footsteps next to him, his focus going from the paper to his friend who was being escorted out by his older brother – his eyes staring at the ground before moving to the views on his left and right side, but never directly staring at the one person that he would be speaking with.

“Now, John. Sherlock has something that he would like to say, don’t you, Sherlock?” Mycroft said voice as sweet and fluid as syrup. Sherlock put his hands together behind his back, his eyes still not meeting John who was now sipping on his juice while watching what would happen next – blue eyes wide and curious.

Sherlock squirmed in place, his eyes going up to John for nearly a second before immediately going back to the floor. This pattered repeated itself for what felt to John like hours, his anticipation for what was to be said was proving too strong for him to handle on his own. The sounds of air bubbles pushing through his straw sliced through the silence like hot knife into butter.

“What-“

“…I’m sorry, John.”

“What are you sorry for, Sherlock?” Mycroft prodded, a blush making its way onto Sherlocks porcelain skin, causing him to hide his face even more.

“That’s stupid; I didn’t give him the splinter…” Sherlock mumbled.

“But he got it from playing with you. Now, continue what you were going to say.”

“…I’m sorry for giving you that wooden sword. I didn’t know you were going to get hurt.” Sherlock glanced up at John, who was now chewing on the straw in the juice box while still swinging his feet back and forth slowly. He repeated this motion for a few more seconds before he put the box down on the table and climbed off of the chair, making his way towards Sherlock with the paper on the table in hand.

He stopped in front of Sherlock who only stared at the floor and said nothing else. John slipped his head underneath Sherlocks’, meeting him eye to eye with a huge grin on his face. Sherlock attempted to turn his face away from Johns’, thinking that it would save him the embarrassment of seeing the look of triumph from John for getting an apology for his suffering with the splinter.

As he turned his head, the paper that was in Johns’ hand was now in Sherlocks’ face, blocking his vision with a mixture of opaque paper and clouding his senses with the texture and smell of wax crayon. Sherlock took the paper in hand and stared at it for a moment, looking back at John who only grinned in response.

“I’m sorry, too. Your toys aren’t dumb. They’re cool. I don’t want you to think I’m a big baby or something, but I’m sorry. I had fun, so let’s do it again, okay?” John held out his hand for a handshake, Sherlock returning the shake cautiously. He thought to himself that he would never tell John just exactly how inwardly pleased he was, and yet part of him could tell that John had already figured it out.

Mycroft looked at the clock in the living room, gasping at the passage of time. He started to wonder whether or not he was going to get the Watson child home in time, or even if Sherlock would let him leave, but he knew that if he didn’t get John out soon enough, he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Harriet. He’d come to learn that when Harriet was upset – you didn’t want to be the thing that she was upset with. Period.

“Sherlock, John needs to go home now. It’s getting late, and I’m sure his mom wants to see him at least once today.” Mycroft stated pointedly, directing Sherlock to the now setting sun and the darkening evening sky.

Sherlock only glanced back at John, who was now gleefully tinkering with the eye patch that Sherlock had given to him before. He took the eye patch and put it over one eye, then over the other, as though testing out his own vision from every angle possible. He settled on, in the end, just putting the patch over one eye and covering the opposite eye with his hand, effectively blinding himself.

“Okay, I’ll take him then. Let’s go, John.” Sherlock grabbed onto Johns’ wrist, dragging him through the door without even another word to his brother. In his hurry, Sherlock hadn’t noticed that he dropped the sheet that John had given him, and Mycroft picked it up without hesitation.

After perusing the paper for only seconds, Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. John Watson – an interesting boy indeed.

On the paper, John had drawn the two of them on a boat, Sherlock wearing a pirate captains hat and a big puffy white shirt and his long black coat, and John in merely a red bandana and a black and white striped shirt.

Underneath, he had only written the word “Adventure!”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock sat at the table in the Watson home, sitting in the seat next to John while Harriet sat across from him, the look in her eyes was something that Sherlock couldn’t distinguish – making him all the more uncomfortable He found himself wanting to comment on it, but at the risk of making John upset, he decided against it.

Mrs. Watson had invited Sherlock in for dinner, an unexpected turn of events from the initial plan of merely returning him to the home and going back to a dull night in his own home, or a dull night out on the streets – he still hadn’t decided.

He picked at the vegetables on his plate, carrots and broccoli two of the things that were lowest on his “favorite foods” list. He was grateful for the fact that the other foods that were presented, the chicken being something he could thrive on. He watched John as he picked up the vegetables with his fork and ate them without even batting an eye, the fork caught between his lips as his eyes met Sherlocks’.

“What’s the matter, Sherlock?” He said through full cheeks, making him look like a tiny chipmunk and causing Harriet to laugh at him from the other side of the table.

“Not Hungry.” Was all Sherlock would say, pushing the plate away from in front of him.

Mrs. Watson, who had been intending on speaking with Sherlock all night to get to speak with her sons newfound friend, rescinded her intentions after seeing how bluntly her cooking had been rejected by the boy. She could feel her eyebrows furrowing at the thought of how different this boy had been from her sweet little John, and how much she had wanted to say something to him – but her desire to save face merely made her go back to eating.  

John swallowed the mass of broccoli and chicken in his mouth, his throat feeling dry and scratchy as he attempted to eat in the now incredibly uncomfortable atmosphere between his mother and his friend. He could tell that his mother was upset at Sherlock’s behavior, and Sherlock didn’t seem to care and if anything, wanted to make his ideas more prominent.

“Erm. Good dinner Mama. Sherlock had a buncha juice before he came over, so he was kinda full. But, he likes it.” John proclaimed enthusiastically, nodding wholeheartedly at his desire to make Sherlock into a better person in his Mama’s eyes.

“Lying isn’t good, John –“Sherlock began.

“Sherlock, it’s getting late. You should head home now; the city curfew is getting close.” Harriet interjected, shuffling out of her chair and over to Sherlock while quickly gesturing him out of the room. John climbed out of his chair and followed his sister and his friend, only to be pulled back by Mrs. Watson.

“Johnny, Sweetie. Mama needs to talk to you.” She began, waiting for the moment when she heard the door close from the other room with a solidary click. Her hands rested on his shoulders as she brought herself down to eye level with the boy she referred to as her sunshine, a boy she wanted to shine brightly as long as she possibly could – a boy that she thought didn’t need a boy like Sherlock.

“Yes Mama?”

“That Sherlock boy… He’s bad news. I just don’t think that you should talk to him anymore, because if you do, then you’re going to make Mama very sad, and he’s going to get you into bad stuff.” She lied through her teeth, her pseudo concern only masking the true fear of Sherlocks’ attitude rubbing off onto John.

“Okay?”

John went back to playing with his fingers, rubbing them this way and that between one another in front of his stomach – his only true vice when he was in a position such as this one.

“Okay Mama.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock sat in his room, a flashlight in one hand and a book in the other. He preferred reading late at night like this in the comfort of his bed versus out in the living room with his family, his solitary behavior something that his parents lectured him about for hours until his mind went numb. But he didn’t care – to him, being alone was all he had, and it protected him from the things that seemed to plague others who grew too attached to another human being.

 As he flipped the page to the book on animals that he had been glancing at, he heard a tapping at the window. His curiosity was piqued, partially because of the fact that he hadn’t ever had a late night visitor but also because he hoped that maybe it would be someone willing to take him out of the house and give him something exciting to do – something that would finally relieve him of the boredom that he felt on nights such as these.

He opened the curtain to see John staring back at him, dawned fully in his pajamas and a pair of pants and a shirt in his arms. He looked up at Sherlock who only kept a straight face, not sure which emotion to display in such a time like this while deciding whether or not to ask what had compelled John to come see him this late at night or ask him if this was an invitation for late night adventuring. Either way, Sherlock was stumped.

“Mama says I can’t be your friend anymore. But. I like having you as my friend, so I thought I’d come over tonight.” John said quietly, still looking up at Sherlock from the alley where his window stood.

“Isn’t your mother going to be mad?” Sherlock asked, puzzled at this gesture.

“Maybe… but, I don’t like what my Mama says… so I don’t care.”

And that summer night was the first time John had ever found himself as happy as he could be away from his own bed. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys! I know it's been months since I've updated last, but I have good reason: Vacation and college. *Sigh*  
> Well, this chapter has been something that I have been working on, and I hope that you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'll try to update a little more frequently than I have been!
> 
> I'm sorry if this becomes less clear for everyone to understand, but here's the current ages of our young bunch here:
> 
> John: 5  
> Sherlock: 8  
> Harriet: 12  
> Mycroft: 14
> 
> Year: Late 1942.

“That watson kid…”

“Sherlock…”

“That Holmes kid is pretty **wacky** …”

“How’d he even get a friend?”

Sherlock tried to ignore the sounds of the mumbles and whispers that grew amongst the throngs of children as he walked towards the school doors, his footsteps being echoed with a lighter and faster set of footsteps. He kept his coat on as he walked, the collar turned up to camouflage his face and protect his skin from the ever dropping temperatures outside. Fall was an interesting time of year, the time of year that Sherlock loved most of all as the temperatures were not on either end of the extremes, and they were just enough to keep his mind from overheating or freezing solid.

“Sherlock! Wait!” The familiar voice of his friend right behind him accompanied by a firm grip on his coat sleeve. He turned around to see John, out of breath as he always seemed to be with Sherlock. The look in his eyes showed his disdain of his short stature, but also of Sherlocks’ ability to out walk him every chance he got. Even so, he didn’t want the expression to stick and so it shifted to his rosy smile as soon as he could catch his breath.

“You walk so fast!” John moaned, playfully gesturing Sherlocks’ long legs while gripping the straps to his book bag. Walking alongside Sherlock had been a morning routine of his, one that John was incredibly fond of. John wondered as he walked alongside him if Sherlock enjoyed their morning walks, or at least would notice it if John had chosen not to accompany him one day for whatever reason, but that was something for only John to ponder.

John could recall the day when him and Sherlock stopped riding the bus to school. The two of them would try to talk to each other, Sherlock would help John with his Arithmetic and John would sneak away snacks from lunch and share them with Sherlock when they had the time. Harriet would giggle amongst her friends, shooting John disapproving looks anytime she saw the two boys talking, though it never seemed to stop them one bit. But, nothing seemed to compare with the incident with Anderson.

Anderson was the only person that John could truly say he disliked, even though couldn’t say he hated purely because hate was a word that Mama taught him was for those who were creeps to their very core. John didn’t know much about Anderson, the only thing he did know was that everyone called him Anderson because his first name was so embarrassing that he refused to tell it to anyone, and that information alone was not enough for John to develop a true hatred of him. But, Anderson, even with his embarrassing first name and bad haircuts – he did them himself, from the things John had heard – and his fear of getting dirty, an unknown phenomena to all boys his age, Anderson was still all around more popular than John and Sherlock combined.

And that power alone was enough to cause Anderson to relentlessly torment them.

Anderson would do things to John from pushing him off of the stairs on the bus, something that caused the freshly scarred patch of skin on his knee, to throwing John’s book bag into one of the trees at recess and making him say a “pledge to Anderson” to make him get it back. From day 1, Anderson wielded power over John.

Though the same could not be said for Sherlock.

Sherlock was not one to directly, physically confront someone, but instead he preferred to show it in his own little way. The way that he knew would get to Anderson the hardest, with words, and with performance.

Sherlock was the smartest kid in the entire grade, everyone knew it, and even more so everyone hated him for it. The teachers praised his intelligence, even if they couldn’t stand his way of conveying it, and the other students disliked how bad Sherlock made them look. There were times when even Anderson couldn’t ignore the burning jealousy in his stomach.

And that’s where Sherlock had him. Whenever Anderson would attempt to mess with John, all Sherlock had to do was outscore him, outrank him, _outperform him_ , and that was all that it took to turn Anderson into a red faced, green eyed monster. There were times that Sherlock could remember Anderson staying after class to talk to the teachers, and Sherlock would stand outside of the classrooms and listen to Anderson talking to them, trying to plant the seeds of academic dishonesty towards Sherlock in their minds, and even more so the ideas being viciously done away with. Then Anderson would storm out of the room, even angrier than when he began.

Sherlock knew he didn’t have any physical strength to battle Anderson with, but he had mental, and that was enough.

And it was with that kind of push that drove Anderson to the edge, a day that would hold firmly in both Sherlock and Johns’ mind.

The bus ride began like any other, the other children talked and gossiped amongst themselves, Harriets’ conversations amongst her friends much different than they had been before – now the girls talking about “grown up lady things” vs what were deemed to be childish when she wasn’t at the ripe age of 12. Now, being anything with a “teen” at the end of it is what made it all the difference, even if it meant pre-teen. John still didn’t understand them or their conversations, but to him, the age difference between him and his sister is what made the two of them so far apart. She was nearing the upper division of the school now, 7th grade and on, and he’d just started kindergarten.

Anderson was sitting in the row two seats ahead of them, his neck turning back every so often to watch Sherlock and John sitting together on the bus. Sherlock could see Anderson out of the corner of his eye, but chose not to acknowledge the peanut gallery whenever he saw they were not worth paying attention to. This seemed to only encourage Anderson, his desire to get attention was a force to be reckoned with. Anderson got up from his seat as the bus moved, garnering a scolding from the bus driver as he quickly maneuvered himself into the seat in front of Sherlock and John.

“Hello, Sherlock.” Anderson sneered, slapping on the same plastic smile that Mycroft had whenever he talked to the noirette. Sherlock looked up from the book he was helping John read, and merely said,

“Oh, Hello Anderson. I’m sorry I didn’t invite you to our reading session, but I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of John.”

Anderson could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks, his false gesture of goodwill being stomped on. And so he turned his attention to the only thing that seemed to matter to Sherlock: John.

“So John. How does a kid like you end up with a kid like Sherlock? Did he pay you? Is he doing your homework if you pretend to be his friend?” Anderson asked, his words slicing into Sherlock like a hot knife into butter.

Anderson grinned, satisfied that he had gotten Sherlock right in his sweet spot.

Or so he thought.

John wasn’t very good at the retorts as Sherlock had been, but he was good at following the good ol’ words that his mama had told him: if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. So, he opted to ignore Anderson while feigning increased interest in the book. He pointed to the words and began trying to sound them out, Sherlock failing to catch the hint that John refused to play into Andersons game.

“What’s wrong, John? Is he paying you to ignore me? I get it. Sherlock is a little rich kid, so of course he’s got all of the money in the world to go buying friends.” Anderson sneered, now having been rejected by someone who was voluntarily in his least favorite persons company.

Anderson continued his verbal abuse, going on and on about the things he knew about Sherlock and his family, soon his attempts at getting attention spread to the other children on the bus, and before the boys knew it, Sherlock and John were the center of much gossip around the bus and loud teases from girls and boys alike.

Sherlock opted to ignore their taunts, as he always had when he was being taunted by other children on the playground or talked about. John, on the other hand, grew angrier and angrier each time the taunting got worse.

Now, the way John would describe it is that before he knew it, his body acted on its own.

The way Sherlock would describe it is that it was a way to stop Anderson from being stupid.

Either way, it was a memory that both boys would continue to laugh about.

Before Anderson could even open his mouth for another smart remark, Johns fist was piling into his nose. The book hit the bottom of the bus with a loud THUMP, and all of the children froze as John threw himself onto Anderson and dragged him onto the ground.

Suddenly, there was a riot. The children cheered on the fight, John laying into Anderson with wonky punches going this way and that and Anderson waving his arms around as he tried to pull the shorter boy off of his chest.

Sherlock watched almost helplessly, not sure if he should allow John to continue to beat Anderson into oblivion or pull him off to reduce the amount of trouble that John would get into. The bus stopped with a Jerk, John almost flying to the back of the bus from the sudden momentum and Anderson nearly going with him. John quickly grabbed onto the seats, his sore fists giving him a less than efficient grip while Anderson attempted to grab his ankles but instead flew under the seat that Harriet happened to be sitting in. There was only a squeal, then the sound of stomping as Harriet pulled her skirt down to hide herself from Andersons wondering eyes.

There was a moment of silence and clarity, then John felt a pair of arms wrap around his shoulders.

“Hey, get up! Let’s go, I’m taking you off of the bus kid. You’re too much trouble! I can’t let you ride.” The bus driver stated, dragging john towards the door while the youth fought helplessly to free himself.

“You don’t understand! That kid was being mean! I mean, a real Jerk I tell you!” John attempted to make his case, squirming in the man’s grip. But, he wasn’t swayed in the least. Soon, he conceded defeat.

John merely sunk to the ground as he sat outside of the bus, more than a little worried of what mama would say, and definitely upset that he would never get to ride the bus with his friend Sherlock. Their morning routine would be cancelled, giving them less time than ever to be in each other’s company. Tears welled up his eyes as he stared as his bruised knuckles, rubbing them over his eyes as he cried.

“The sentence reads ‘I like to pet cats.’”

John could feel the tears slipping away at the sound of the familiar voice, and the book that went along with it. He looked up to Sherlock handing him his stuff in one hand, and keeping his other hand open to help up his smaller friend, which John took graciously. He sniffled a few times as he took the bag, smiling as big as he possibly could through tear coated cheeks.

“Thanks.” He said, laughing now while he continued to viciously wipe away the tears.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but instead he grabbed Johns hand and held it firmly. John smiled brighter, knowing that even if Sherlock didn’t return his gratitude verbally, he still acknowledged it. And that was enough.

The two of them walked to school hand in hand, not caring if they were late, not caring about Anderson, only caring about the new routine that they’d built up for themselves.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfiction for Sherlock ever, really. So, i'm quite nervous to have posted it. But, I hope that you enjoy the opening chapter so far, and the other chapters to follow.


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